


Fixing connections

by Beginte



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall - Fandom
Genre: Also some fluff, Flirting, Humor, James Bond's horrible terrible pick-up lines, M/M, established developing relationship, fun with some feels and a smidge of smut, those two idiots really should use their words and communicate properly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 19:31:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5103002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Come now, Q, we always have each other’s back. And since we’re on the phone already...”</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Fine. Tell me what’s wrong,” Q knows very well where Bond is trying to get with this, and he might just as well make him work for it as a compensation for interrupting his evening.</i></p><p>  <i>“Well,” there’s more clatter as Bond clearly fiddles around with the equipment, “everything is connected, but the internet just doesn’t work.”</i></p><p>  <i>“Have you tried turning it off and back on?” Q asks dryly.</i></p><p>  <i>“Oh, it is turned on.”</i></p><p>  <i>Q breathes deeply, because he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.</i></p><p>-</p><p>In which Bond and Q haven't yet done the actual sleeping part of sleeping together, and Bond ventures to change that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixing connections

**Author's Note:**

  * For [releasetheglitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/releasetheglitch/gifts).



> For the fantastic releasetheglitch (cassellate), because she sparked this fic with the idea of a porno-like situation of Q coming over to fix something at Bond's flat :D
> 
> This was also inspired by Bond's beautifully horrible line about looking for stationery in _Quantum of Solace._

* * *

Bond is lucky he’s handsome and irresistibly charismatic, because otherwise Q cannot possibly fathom his pick-up lines working on anyone.

Oh yes, his seduction technique is quite excellent, Q can vouch for its success firsthand, but it all works _despite_ his lines, not because of them. He has a tantalisingly magnetic presence, a sinful voice, he makes genuinely enjoyable company, and his entire self is impossibly seductive whenever he tries (and often when he doesn’t try). It makes people fall into bed and off the edge of reason with him.

Over the last two months or so, Q and Bond have been shagging semi-regularly. Each time is a spur of the moment thing, in between their snarky banter, their flirting, their genuine trust and teamwork in exhilarating rush of explosive missions. It all feels so perfectly, damnably natural and right.

Q had rather resisted for a while, because he very definitely did not want to commit the cliché of sleeping with the arrogant 007, but then, at some point, working a late night and having only a flirting and smirking Bond for company, he’d snapped. And then a one-night stand in his office turned into a string of frankly excellent shags in a variety of places: a few deserted nooks of MI6, a car in the garage, and twice a hotel in a foreign country during missions.

And now it’s 9:47 pm and Q is blessedly home, just settling down on his sofa with his latest disassembled prototype, first mug of relaxing night time tea in hand, when his mobile warbles into life. He glances at it lying on the coffee table just out of comfortable reach, and sees _007_ flashing across the screen.

With a sigh and a feeling he’ll regret this in under forty seconds, he sets down his mug, shifts on the sofa and makes a lunge for the phone.

“007, how may I help?”

He can _hear_ Bond’s smirk before he even speaks.

“ _Q. I hope I’m not interrupting your evening,”_ there’s a clatter of something plastic in the background. _“I seem to have a problem with my, uh, my internet connection_.”

He’s going somewhere with this, and Q closes his eyes for a long moment, because this is _not_ what he’d planned to deal with this evening.

“Bond...”

“ _It just doesn’t seem to work at all, and I can’t work out what’s wrong.”_

“Ring the bloody IT, Bond, I’m not your personal tech support,” he replies scathingly and cradles the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he reaches for a screwdriver to further gut the malfunctioning prototype spread across his lap.

“ _Come now, Q, we always have each other’s back. And since we’re on the phone already...”_

“Fine. Tell me what’s wrong,” Q knows very well where Bond is trying to get with this, and he might just as well make him work for it as a compensation for interrupting his evening.

“ _Well_ ,” there’s more clatter as Bond clearly fiddles around with the equipment, “ _everything is connected, but the internet just doesn’t work.”_

“Have you tried turning it off and back on?” Q asks dryly.

“ _Oh, it is_ turned on.”

Q breathes deeply, because he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.

He walks Bond through some tweaks in the settings, explains to him the difference between a modem and a router (he’s sure Bond is feigning this particular depth of ignorance just to fuck with him), and all the while senses exactly where this is headed.

“Alright, how many lights are on?” he asks, poking around in the thin wires of his prototype.

“ _Hmm, this is too difficult. I think you need to come down here and get a more... hands-on approach.”_

Q closes his eyes again and half-waits for Bond to say something about being a blond and needing help.

He knows Bond is being ridiculous and idiotically transparent on purpose - it’s a form of charm on its own, and Q must admit it’s somehow disarming. But he’s also aware they’ve never done this before - they’ve never been to each other’s flats. Their occasional shags have so far not seeped into the more private aspect of their lives, never taken place at home. Although, well, one could possibly argue that MI6 was as much of a home for the both of them as their flats. And god knows they’ve found quite a handful of places to have sex there.

But still, this is different, and while it may just be convenience to Bond - asking Q into his flat for some sex - Q is not certain he would manage to think of it the same way.

Still.

He does rather feel in the mood for sex at this point, part-relaxed and part-irked by Bond’s idiotic pick-up, and he could use some good shagging. And between the two of them, the shagging is always truly superb.

“Alright,” he says. “But I’ll expect to be well compensated for my time.”

Bond chuckles, velvet-like, into the phone.

“ _I’ll do my best to compensate you thoroughly._ “

Oh, sod the implications. Q can think about them on the way back, or downright tomorrow. Or maybe never, if he can manage.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Q rings the bell by 007′s door.

Bond opens with a pleased smirk, those smouldering eyes sweeping almost palpably over Q’s frame as he lets him in.

“So glad you could make it,” he hums.

He’s dressed in jeans, because apparently he knows what it does to Q (that arse and those thighs), and a simple, soft cotton T-shirt in a warm grey that makes those damnable blue eyes seem even more electric than they usually are. He’s also barefoot, and for some reason this domestic detail - in a flat so obviously sterile and hardly lived-in - disarms Q completely.

To Bond’s credit, there really _is_ a pathetically blinking modem half-taken apart on the floor of the living room, cables attached to a laptop.

“You need a new modem,” Q proclaims dryly, standing over the battlefield.

“An expert diagnosis,” Bond hovers behind him, and Q can feel the heat of his chest radiating against his back. Bond moves that missing inch closer, their bodies brushing together. He noses at Q’s neck, a wisp of breath teasing the skin there into aching sensitivity. “Thank you, Quartermaster.”

Q tilts his head, offering up more access, and Bond obliges instantly, hands drifting expertly down his sides to rest on the hips, fingers promisingly tracing the waistband of Q’s own jeans.

“I’d like to be compensated upfront,” Q hums, and Bond kisses the side of his neck, right in that spot where the need tingles the most.

“It would be my pleasure,” he purrs into Q’s ear before nipping gently on the lobe.

After that, they drift to the bedroom. It’s as vaguely impersonal as the rest of the flat, but there are traces of Bond and his personality there: his books, his clothes, some trinkets - and the scent of him is very alluringly present in the sheets and pillows.

But Q is far more focussed on Bond searing into his senses, on the strong body, on the clothes dropping to the floor, the eager kisses, and the glorious shagging that’s about to commence. After a bit of a playful tumble Bond ends up sprawled on his back on the bed, Q straddling him and rolling his hips down in a slow, purposeful grind that pulls a moan out of them both. Bond’s hands go to grip at Q’s hips, thumbs rubbing over the jutting bones, and then in a powerful surge he’s sitting up, hands moving to lock behind the small of Q’s back to keep him balanced in Bond’s lap.

Q doesn’t need any help with his balance, smirking at Bond before he kisses him strong and hard, rocking his hips again, taking charge as Bond moans into the kiss and buries a hand in Q’s hair, tugging a little, and yes, this is what he wants. Hot bodies pressed together, pleasure coiling and flaming in a prelude, miles of naked skin to touch, to kiss, to taste... Q trails his hand down Bond's side, then up a strong, thick thigh, and then reaches in between their bodies and finds Bond’s hard cock, eliciting a moan. Ignoring his own erection for the time being, Q strokes once, twice, slow and purposeful, twisting his wrist on the upstroke, and then he presses his thumb just below the head, teasing, causing Bond to hiss and bite on the crook of Q’s neck.

After a bit more teasing, Bond slides a hand under Q’s thigh and then shifts their positions, ultimately landing Q on his back on the bed. Q smirks up at him, sultry and inviting, biting on his lower lip; adjusts his glasses because he knows it drives Bond crazy for some reason. And Bond _pounces_ , and for a while all Q can do is moan and arch as Bond crawls up his body, kissing a path up his torso, stopping to lick and lightly bite at a nipple, mouth hot and wet and setting his nerves on fire.

Q slips a hand over the back of Bond’s neck and pulls him in for a demanding, deep kiss; wraps his legs around Bond’s hips. He’s _so_ ready now, all pleasantly riled up and eager and wanting. He runs his hands over Bond’s back, the powerful muscles, the broad shoulders, and he moans when Bond is now the one to rock his hips, a little harsher and more urgent. Bond is heady strength and powerful physique, and Q is agile, fluent and flexible, and together they mix in absolutely fantastic, fiery sex.

And soon enough, after a quick yet thorough (and delightfully teasing) prep, they’re mixing again, Bond thrusting into him in a perfect rhythm with just enough strength, Q rolling his hips and arching up to meet him thrust for thrust, pulling groans out of Bond with each more elaborate move. Their kisses are hot and strong, and Q bites on Bond’s shoulder, demanding more, and they half-wrestle for a bit, and then they change the angle and Q is seeing stars, moaning and scraping his nails down Bond’s back.

Q comes first, Bond following shortly after, pulse and pleasure humming loud in their ears, kisses open-mouthed and sloppy and just right.

Eventually, they start coming down from the orgasmic high. The warm, pleasant haze is still there, but Q’s breathing is evening out and ability of coherent thought seems to be returning to him, after Bond had quite literally fucked it out of him.

He's very contently sprawled on his back, Bond pressed into his side, arm slung over his waist, rhythmic breaths fanning over Q’s collarbone from where Bond’s head is rested on his shoulder. This feels nice, Q thinks, still a little bit dazed, and that thought stirs a glint of uneasiness somewhere in his chest.

Usually at this point they’re getting dressed again and sharing some promising kisses and their customary brand of snarky flirtation before they part ways, every inch the professionals of MI6 - though that’s generally because they’re _in_ Six or the bloody garage and don’t have the option of lingering lazily around. Even those two times they’d had sex in a proper bed in a hotel, they had to part ways sooner rather than later for mission reasons.

Now the option is here, very much present and tempting and comfortable. They’re in Bond’s bed, it’s late at night, and Q feels like he very much would like to stay over, but he’s not sure this is what Bond would like as well. They’ve both always treated the sex part of their relationship as an occasional thing, never anything serious. And Bond isn’t the kind to stay around very long. Other than the unusual fact of being invited over to his flat, there have been no signs that this should be dramatically different to their other encounters.

But it _does_ feel nice, and Bond’s not moving - far from it, he seems just as contented, relaxed as you please, downright _snuggled_ into Q’s side. This really isn’t fair.

Q is beginning to feel a little sleepy, and he thinks he should probably get going before he falls asleep on Bond, but he’s warm and placed just right. And Bond is nosing affectionately at his neck, and Q hums into it, smiling contently, running a hand up Bond’s arm. He really, really doesn’t want to go.

So he stays a while longer. But as the post-sex haze slowly fizzes out, the gnawing in his chest takes over. Biting on his lip, Q decides to be diplomatic and reluctantly sits up, leaving Bond’s loose yet warm embrace. He rolls his shoulders a little and sighs, letting his feet swing down to touch the floor.

It feels cold.

Behind him, the sheets rustle and Bond idly half-sits up, one hand stroking down Q’s side.

“Do you have something urgent to get back to?” he asks, voice all scratchy velvet and lazy yet somehow mindful drawl, and then he presses a soft, tender kiss to Q’s shoulder.

Q hesitates, glancing back to see a pair of attentive blue eyes peering back at him before another kiss is pressed higher, starting a slow path towards his neck.

“No...” Q answers before he thinks about it. “I don’t think so.”

Bond hums out a soft sound, shifting closer, pressing more kisses up Q’s neck, occasionally straying to his shoulder or jawline. He doesn’t say anything, but each kiss is somehow a subtle offer of some kind - vague yet undeniably present and tempting. Only Q isn’t sure what the offer is, where the temptation is meant to lead.

Still, Bond’s kisses are always quite masterful, so he stays where he is, enjoying himself.

Bond shifts and shuffles a little, graceful and purposeful like a panther. He’s now facing Q’s side, and he noses at Q’s cheek before planting a new series of kisses from there towards his neck. Meanwhile, one calloused hand deftly sneaks its way to Q’s other side, a thumb rubbing up and down the sharp hipbone.

Q looks at him and encounters those perceptive blue eyes looking back at him, just as probing and inquisitive as his own must be. There’s a touch of playfulness in Bond’s attentive gaze, but also something more, something like... anticipation. And almost _wishfulness_.

It’s an invitation, Q suddenly thinks, and tries to control his abruptly quickening heartbeat. Now he sees more in Bond’s face, in his eyes, in the beckoning set of his body which conflicts with the sense of expectation in his gaze.

There's a tension glinting behind it all, as if the stakes are stacked high for Bond.

Tentatively, Q tests the waters, tests how thin is the ice.

“I haven't got anything _terribly_ urgent to get back to,” he says, holding eye contact steadily.

Something bright flickers in Bond’s vibrant blue eyes; the corners of his sharply drawn mouth quirk up in a small smile, and a fraction of tension evaporates in a way that would be imperceptible if Q hadn’t been on the lookout for it.

“Well then,” Bond crowds into him a little, coaxing him back down onto the bed in such a delightfully seductive manner. “What sort of an agent I would be if I allowed my Quartermaster to go out alone so late at night.”

Q quirks back a smirk at him and complies, falling back down onto Bond’s bed, into his pillows and the scent of sex and the two of them mixed together.

Bond settles beside him, pulls up the sheets over them both just enough to be pleasant but not stifling, and twines his legs in between Q’s, shuffling closer, propped up on one elbow. He lingers like this for a moment, eyes sweeping over Q with something suspiciously like pleasure, bright and almost relieved. Satisfied. An intricate mixture of fractions of all of the above.

Q watches him back, seeing him unshielded and quite possibly, maybe, just maybe wanting what Q does, and in that moment the word ‘James’ hovers on his tongue, dances in his mouth, trying to slip out, and then it does.

“James.”

The blue eyes flash even brighter, a twinkle sparked by a flirtatious smirk.

“Q.”

Q parts his lips a little way and glances at James’, demanding a kiss, and James obliges immediately, leaning in, delectably shifting his body against Q’s as their mouths meet.

The kiss turns a little deeper and more fiery than either of them initially intended, and when they pull apart, Q is just a bit short of breath.

“Well then,” he clears his throat. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Q,” there’s something unspeakably _content_ in Bond’s voice, but Q firmly refuses to ponder this right now.

Bond reaches over him and turns out the nightlight, and then, in the soft darkness, Q can feel him nuzzling into his neck once again, as though hoping to pick up an interrupted thought or conversation he'd been quietly enjoying. His arm is once more wrapped loosely around Q's waist - settled low, barely just above the hips, as if hopeful rather than possessive.

And Q is definitely not going to keep himself awake pondering the implications of what this sleepover means for him, for _them_. But somehow, with James' warm weight pressed against his side, the prospect of having to ponder it later doesn't seem quite so daunting anymore.

* * *

 


End file.
